


and yet

by cherrytart



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dark Thorin, Goldsickness, M/M, Possessive Behavior, The Author Regrets Everything, i did the thing, its messed up anyway, sort of, thorin's mental health issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:51:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrytart/pseuds/cherrytart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the goldsickness takes thorin, and thorin takes in turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and yet

**Author's Note:**

> I did say I would write fic based on that moment in the trailer...it sort of got away from me.

"would you be so good as to remove that. it and I aren't especially compatible, you'll find." even with the sharp edge of Thorin's sword leveled at his unprotected chest, Bilbo Baggins' glib mouth holds a captivation for the king under the mountain, even if it does spout fuss and nonsense more often than not.

"if you would be so kind as to tell me where you think of going, halfling, at this time of night?" Thorin Oakenshield replies sharply.

the unknowing quirk at the edge of the burglar's mouth sparks something within the dwarf king's chest. this is not uncommon, but where once he could have made a similar motion in return, instead the look and Bilbo's easy joking stirs him to anger.

familiarity such as this is no longer appropriate, nor can his hard-won pride tolerate the look in the burglar's eyes. Bilbo Baggins, Thorin is coming to realise, has always looked at him as an equal, even when the hobbit stood bashful and stuttering before him in his little shire warren.

he does not wish Bilbo to fear him- the thing within that once might have smiled at a jest from the hobbit protests loudly at the thought. but Thorin must have the respect that is due to more than a friend or a leader. he would go so far as to say obedience, even though the hobbit is no subject of his.

that twists the unpleasant feeling within him further. he must have been silent for a long while, for the burglar speaks. "Thorin?"

the king under the mountain swallows down his anger and gives the hobbit what he hopes is a blank look. "there is no need for you to venture out of the main halls. indeed it is not safe to do so."

he is right to say so, he thinks. he does not distrust Bilbo- does he? whichever way, his- _their_ burglar may know how to use that little butterknife sword of his with some level of competence, but outside elves and men and all their duplicities lurk and Thorin will not-

he will not allow his treasure to leave the mountain. his jewels, his gold. treasure that reflects beguiling lights onto the russet curls of the burglar - bilbo is backing away now, his eyes troubled. Thorin keeps the sword level- it is as much protection as it is warning. the hobbit must understand that.

a king must guard his kingdom, and all its contents.

erebor is his now. its riches are all he needs, all he is due...

and yet.

*

he finds himself distracted by the burglar.

he has been so before. since the goblin caves, Thorin has been forced to reassess the halfling, and no doubt the last leg of their journey would have proved rather more difficult if not for Bilbo Baggins and his light feet and fingers.

still, that does not account for the prickling feeling the dwarf king encounters whenever he lays eyes on his erstwhile burglar. _his._ everything he surveys is his and it ought to be more satisfying.

but the continued absence of his arkenstone, the murmurings he thinks he hears among his company, and most of all, the eyes of the hobbit that manage to be so direct and so sly all at once leaves Thorin in a state of permanent unease.

his trust in his fellows seems a flimsy thing all of a sudden, and the hobbit will insist on making it _worse_.

the company are making plans, dividing the gold amongst themselves (and thorin's very heart is sickened at the thought of losing even an inch of that shining treasure, heirlooms and artifacts centuries old and precious beyond compare, into the hands of another, even those of the company. but it cannot be helped and the blackness worsens)

and always bilbo is there. He is as a splinter of bark beneath Thorin's forge-thickened skin- wholly out of place and unnatural, yet anchored by foul means or fair. the worst thing, the very worst is that he would not for a moment have the hobbit out of his sight.

and _that_ he cannot fathom, for erebor is no place for a shireling, and this one with his bright curls (golden, they seem more lit with gold every time Thorin glances their way and it makes his fingers twitch, wanting to grasp and pull, to make the halfling bend to the command of his hands) and his soft hands and round cheeks less than any-

_and yet._

thorin's precious time, time he should spend strategising, excavating or _looking for the arkenstone,_ mahal help him, is instead filled with imaginations of the halfling. he has a fancy as to how well bilbo would look decked in jewels, how they might catch the light in those frustrating eyes.

certainly he must give the halfling something. it might go some way to assauging thorin's own doubts, though he can scarce remember where they came from in the first place. his thoughts turn thick and sour, and the admiration he feels for the halfling turns to suspicion of the little one's guile and cunning.

and mingles with desire.

bilbo is well formed even in dwarven clothes that fit him ill, and though the blue coat he wears is pleasing to the eye, it reveals too much. prying eyes are not to look at thorin's treasure.

it is bad enough that the halfling is still so friendly with everyone, and that he keeps his distance from Thorin since the incident with the sword.

there were moments in laketown and mirkwood when the halfling would seek thorin out, would smile at him easily, unguarded. and thorin had _welcomed_ him, for bilbo was valiant and brave and open in a way the dwarf king found wholly foreign. intoxicating. to have him would be to touch a jewel made flesh.

once, bilbo might have wanted...

but now, now he laughs with the toymaker, chats to Balin and Dori as they work, keeps his distance from the king under the mountain. the halfling is subtle and sly, a new wariness about him. is the hobbit hiding something? surely he would not dare.

the sole thing that keeps Thorin from searching the halfling is that fact that he will not stoop to anger over such a trifle. the hobbit is under thorin's eye at all times, sleeps in the main hall with the rest of the company, when could he possibly have secreted any of the other treasures away?

he would not even want to, thorin thinks sourly. hobbits have strange fancies, and bilbo does not care for gold. jewels though...jewels would look well upon him and better to give him that than any of Thorin's gold. it would not be so much parting with his treasures as forging a newer, better treasure. bilbo baggins, pale skinned and shining.

precious beyond compare. yes, he must have a gift.

when thorin bestows a mithril coat of armour upon him (safe, it will keep him _safe,_ he must not be damaged) he seems grateful enough- he blushes, even dares to smile. "a little much, isn't it?" he quips, but he does not try to hand back the shirt.

thorin ignores the gawking he is sure is coming from all sides and presses the garment to bilbo's chest. for a moment, just a moment, he feels the warmth of the hobbit's skin, bare below the oversized coat, and it sets his blood raging.

he catches hold of the hobbit's wrist as the halfling goes to fold the shirt away, relishes the softness and give of the flesh. of how sweetly the halfling stutters and tenses at his touch. "i would have you wear it." thorin says lowly.

it is not a request.

*

they all watch him. thorin is sure of it. they covet bilbo. they seek to fill their greedy gazes with what is _his,_ should only and ever belong to him.

bofur is the worst, for he touches the halfling as well, arms thrown lazily across bilbo's shoulders, hand on the hobbit's arm, it seems endless and thorin cannot endure it. he should not have to, but he knows not how to make it clear that the halfling is off limits- short of shackling the burglar to the wall of thorin's chamber, and there is still a faint portion of the king's self that balks at that, quiet and strained but strong enough to prevent such excess.

this would be bad enough if not that his own _nephews_ overstep the mark- perhaps they are not so much at fault, for they are tense and nervous, and in their roughousing one day they manage to topple the hobbit sidelong into one of the pits filled almost to the brim with gold that are cut into the edges of the room.

Thorin looks down at the burglar as he struggles to gain a foothold on the slippery gold, and a dark satisfaction grows in him, blooming like a strangling weed. **yes**. this, this is exactly where the halfling belongs. as part of the treasury of mighty erebor, beholden to its king alone.

so engrossed is he that he scarcely notices the halfling scrabbling his way out of the golden pit until bilbo is being brushed off by an apologetic Fili and then virtually pawed over by Kili, and thorin has a mind to threaten to pack them both off to ered luin again if they continue in this vein.

"enough." he eventually cuts in, waving them away from the flustered hobbit. "mr baggins is quite well, are you not?"

"oh, perfectly." bilbo nods, hand slipping into his pocket. thorin is struck with the urge to order him to turn it out, reveal whatever it is he is hiding away. what right has this creature to keep secrets from him?

"good." thorin forces the world out, feeling as though it claws its way through something large in the pit of his throat. he turns his eyes to his nephews, both of them with dark circles below their eyes that he has not seen till now. "out. both of you. i wish to speak to the halfing alone."

 _his name is Bilbo._ the echo of Balin's indignancy resonates uncomfortably in thorin's head, but when he straightens it is Kili's eyes he sees. "uncle..." his nephew sounds young again, uncertain, and the king recognises the hollowness in his gaze abstractly, aware that it reminds him of something but uncertain as to the cause.

it matters not, whatever it is. "get some rest." he tells his nephew, placing a hand on Kili's shoulder. he has done his best for his nephews- never been demonstrative with them, that is not his way, not even when they were children.

Vili was always the one who...well, their father has been dead more than seventy years now, and they are thorin's heirs. for a time, they were all he had, conscious as he is of his failings. "we must be strong. we will outlast the elf scum at our gates."

"we know, uncle." Fili  says quietly. dutiful, always dutiful. thorin could not be prouder of his golden heir. the boys nod, drawing close together as they leave the room. the burst of energy that sent the halfling tumbling seems to have drained from them in seconds, as though they are overtired children again.

the thought is disquieting and thorin shakes his head to clear it, noticing the plentiful heaps of treasure, the lights it reflects on the carven walls and the slopes of the halfling’s face. he too is a little drawn, a little pale, but this does not resonate so much with thorin. not cut out for adventure, indeed.

bilbo's fingers slip through his braces when their eyes meet. "what is it you wanted to speak to me about, your majesty?" thorin cannot tell whether he is making mock or being serious.

"why were you in here with my nephews? I expect such foolishness from them, but i rather expected _you_ to understand-"

"understand what?" the halfling's voice is brittle. "your majesty." and this time, thorin's title it is definitely grudging. "understand that you cannot see two inches in front of your nose unless what you see is made of gold? understand that-"

"enough." thorin snarls, taking a compulsive step towards bilbo. "you know nothing of what it means to be a dwarf, halfling. perhaps i ought to teach you better respect." he knows not whether he wants to throttle the hobbit or claim that pink prattling mouth for himself.

bilbo heaves a quick breath, his cheeks colouring, and thorin finds his own chest tightening, "no...thorin, i do respect you. enough to tell you the truth as I see it. you are...you do not eat or drink or take rest, you spend your days and nights in planning for a war _we don't have to fight_. I'm sorry its come to this, but you are my friend, and I...you-" he breaks off, seemingly unable to complete his thought.

"I am your _king_." Thorin takes the opportunity to correct him. "you reside in _my_ kingdom, halfling." you are _mine_ , he wants to say, to shout it almost, to make the halfling understand that...he hardly knows what, only that his blood is boiling and the hum of the gold in the pits and the slow tilt of the halfling's head is going to drive him to something he cannot take back.

bilbo seems to sense this, perceptive little thing that he is, and he holds up his hands as though to placate- or reach out, a sly voice murmurs from inside the king's head. it sets thorin's teeth on edge. "alright. i see." the hobbit bows his head and goes to take his leave. "there is no point." he mutters as he passes thorin, who stands, hand on the hilt of his sword, still as a sentinel in the middle of the chamber.

that frustrated murmur catches the king under the mountain though, and he turns, eyes tracking the burglar, the secretive hunch of his shoulders and the pale arch of his neck that thorin would grip just tight enough for him to feel it, not to hurt but to _ache_ , leave blue bruises splashed across his skin like dark gems, and the hobbit would gasp, thorin would kiss him and swallow it, for him, all for him-

and yet, he finds himself immobile, hot eyed and frustrated, unable to enact his desire. he has not yet fallen far enough for that. his is a weighty burden, still a crownless king, and the hobbit would not understand. _does not_ understand.

but thorin would understand his words. "no point to what, burglar?" he asks, his voice heavy in the scratch it makes against his throat. has it really been so long since he drank, or broke bread? "answer me." he demands, pushing at his unwelcome thoughts, pressing them back.

the burglar does not turn, but thorin catches his answer, and his voice seems almost sad. "no point in trying to reason with you."

even turning the words over in his mind later, he cannot make sense of them. the hobbit thinks him incapable, thinks him a blundering fool? he, Thorin Oakenshield, who has done everything he could up to this point, and has a kingdom and a treasure to show for it.

the shireling claims that Thorin does not see, but oh, he does. he sees very well. he will not allow the halfling, _his_ halfing, to turn tail and run now simply because he doubts Thorin. there is nothing for him to doubt.

if Bilbo Baggins will not show him the loyalty due to the king under the mountain, then so help him Thorin will have to _make_ him loyal.

*

with the darkness of battle encroaching, Thranduil and that jumped up bowman from laketown making ever more ridiculous demands, it seems they grow closer to conflict by the hour. Thorin takes no real pleasure in preparing for battle against those who should be allies, but he will do what he must.

but first, there is the halfling to attend to. how can the dwarf king be sure of victory when one of his own company could be acting as suspiciously as a sneak thief?

perhaps it is thorin's own doing- he did hire the halfling under the title of 'burglar'- or _'expert treasure seeker',_ as Gloin had so diplomatically put it.

Diplomacy. Something Thorin now fears he lacks. But what need has he for diplomacy when he has Balin at his right side, Dwalin at his left and an army marching to defend his mountain, and yet-

he is to be a king in truth now. he will need to cultivate the ways of fine talking, but this is not the time for it. words will not do for the halfling, the little burnished temptation who is so clever and quiet but when he speaks can spin words into silver.

it matters not. thorin knows what he must do.

when next he apprehends the creeping little thief, the burglar finds his way into the throne room, where thorin is upon his grandfather’s seat- the armrests thick with dust and dirt, the plinth above hollow in the absence of its jewel. 

well does the king under the mountain remember golden hours spent in the light of the arkenstone and the emerald marble of these walls- dry, dark and dusty they may be now, but under his eyes they will shine again, replete with splendour.

and he would have the halfling at his side, in his bed- but first the creature must be taught to obey. it is thorin’s right, after all, to have the hobbit for his own- such a small boon, and yet greater than another thorin from what seems long ago would have dared hope for.

the burglar starts when he sees thorin seated carefully upon the throne, fingers twitching nervously and tousled curls falling into his eyes. Thorin likes them at this length, long enough to braid- and to grip.

they were not so long before, but the journey has changed them all it seems.

“you come in here often, halfling?” thorin asks.

“erm- no, of course not, i wouldn’t dream of-” the halfling has always been in tune to thorin’s moods, even at the beginning when his spine would stiffen at a sharp word, his dark-no-bright eyes crinkling in response to the pitch of the dwarf king’s voice. perhaps that is why he changes tack so quickly. “i was just-”

“looking for a way out.” Thorin supplies him with the answer he is so obviously evading. “i am no fool, burglar.”

Said burglar is flushing again, and the burn in thorin’s chest matches that on the halfing’s cheeks. it is need that has gone beyond all desire, rational only in its pure vehemence.

“I don’t know what you mean.” the hobbit replies.

“I’ll wager there is much you don’t know, halfling. But it makes no matter. Come here.” Thorin is aware of the low pitch of his voice, a threat coupled with temptation, and it seems to affect the little creature before him.

the burglar's feet are silent as he approaches his king in supplication, almost in fear. Contrary to his earler flush, the shireling is suddenly pale, as though he would draw off and flee at any second. Thorin notices the small sword hanging at the creature's waist.

as soon as the hobbit is close enough, Thorin reaches forward and, holding his treasure still with one hand to the halfling's hip, detaches the little dagger. it drops the floor with a satisfying thunk. there is a question in the thief's eyes, but he will understand soon enough.

the king under the mountain tightens his grip, drawing his halfling closer. his own, his very heart, this small soft temptation that should have no need of weapons or worry, for he is to be kept safe, always in Thorin's sight and safely locked away if not.

"my king..." the halfling murmurs, uncertainty plain the low catch of his speech, and Thorin is conscious of the warmth of the little thing before him, the fineness of skin that has been kissed each day by the sun.

"yes." he replies, spreading his legs and drawing the hobbit between them. he sees no reason to hide his own need from his burglar, not when it is so clearly mirrored in the hobbit's face. "again." Thorin prompts, sliding his hand up and under the hobbit's linen shirt, beneath cool mithril to meet skin, tender against his rough palm.

the creature gasps at the intrusion. "Thorin-"

 ** _no._** still he does not understand, does not comprehend.

no matter. the instincts honed by over a century of battle and slowly simmering rage make it easy, pitifully easy for Thorin to rise, take hold of the small hobbit and lift him onto the throne, press him, face first against the marble with a king at his back.

"do you think me unaware, halfling?" thorin hisses into the pointed shell of the burglar's ear, delicate and elf-like and just as frustratingly alluring as the rest of him. the creature shivers and tries to make a movement, shake his head perhaps, but the king under the mountain has no further need of speech from his treasure.

the arch in the hobbit's back, the slow whine at the back of his throat and the whiteness in his knuckles as he grips the arms of thorin's throne says more than any flowery speech could. this is what thorin understands, this slide of skin on skin and the comfort of the surrounding stone, singing in his blood to claim his rights.

and oh the shireling is so very small and so very precious, he must be taught yes but cherished also.

and so it is with infinite care that he draws their troublesome clothes away and seeks, seeks for the halfling's entrance, finds it twitching and tight against the press of his too-large fingers. lust is black, he has found, blacker than smoke as it swirls through him and pines on the side of the mountain, smoke after dragonfire-

there is ash in his blood, every single burned dwarf of azanulbizar and he can hear them _screaming as they die_ \- he presses closer, buries his head in soft brown curls, too short but enough, just enough and the gasps of the small form held safe in his arms overtake the clamour in his head, the murmur of _oh-please please ohmyplease_ coming from that scarlet mouth, that mouth he will fuck one day.

"hush." Thorin murmurs. "i know what you need, and you shall have it." he is not unprepared- a vial uncorked from within his tunic and soon his hand and cock are slick with oil and the halfling is squirming back against him, half eager and half terrified, has no one had him like this before?

the thought almost undoes thorin, would do so had the desire to be buried deep within his halfling's round arse, to take and claim and _own_ , not been so strong.

"like this." he grits out as soon as he is inside the hobbit, able to press flush against the creature and pull him back onto thorin's cock. the halfling's face is beyond any words thorin can find within himself, contorted in what might be more pain than pleasure, the king beneath the mountain cannot tell.

his teeth graze the fluttering pulse at the burglar's neck. "like this, my thief. this is how i have wanted you, wanted you so long-" he leans forward and catches the halfling's lips with his own, presses down and feels the hum and tremor of the body beneath his, stretched around him, skin slippery with sweat and flushed pink. 

"oh, i can't-" the halfling gasps, his hand sliding down to grip his own cock even as he presses greedily against thorin, but the dwarf is quick and he grips the hobbit's wrist.

"you are mine, master burglar. you will come on my cock or not at all- or must i finish you with my fingers in your tight arse? will it grip them as prettily as it does my cock, hmm?" these words render the halfling speechless- his head falls forward against the throne, then back against thorin's shoulder as the king plows into him, merciless in his ardour.

thorin is almost there, hilt-deep inside his sweet shireling burglar whose loyalty he will now have no cause to doubt, for he will sleep at thorin's side and serve his pleasure, cry out for him, only for him, beholden to the king under the mountain-

but he is not king yet. and even as he fucks the burglar, grips the halfing's hips and feels that tight hole clench around his cock, even as the little thing reaches his peak with a cry and collapses, content to let thorin spend his seed into the hobbit's limp form, thorin cannot help but think of the plinth above them where the arkenstone should sit.

he will have all that is his due. the hobbit, the arkenstone, the throne. now that he has this, it does not seem such a trial to wait and search and plan. "i have you." he promises the halfling, gripping his treasure's throat and enjoying the feeling of that sweet pulse fluttering against his hand, the rushed breaths of the thief on the throne of erebor. "my halfling, sweet treasure that you are. you will hide nothing from me now."

the hobbit's curls are damp now, and he shakes a little in thorin's arms, the two of them still joined, hot flesh cooling too quickly. "no." he agrees, very quietly. "nothing."

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know if i should apologise or not.


End file.
